Coffee

Here is something. I wrote it. It isn't really anything, so I can't say it's 'not finished', exactly. It's just a very small something.

            It’s been an insomniac morning. I woke at five, crashed around the house for a glass of water, then came to the annoying realization that I was actually awake for the day. The sun was taking forever to rise. I crawled back into bed and read for a while, but the wheezing radiator was too hot and it was a stupid time of day and the reading material was too esoteric. I got out of bed to do the next logical thing, which was to make coffee.

            There is something about this early-morning light that I have come to associate with Europe, probably because I always woke up so early during those two-week vacations to run the cobblestones with my dad. I don’t even remotely enjoy running, but I’ll join him on his morning routine of compulsive chemical needs—twenty minutes or so of jogging quickly transitions into the pursuit of the elusive Decent Cup of Coffee, which really means something strong enough to stick a spoon in so it could remain vertical, suspended in the steaming, bitter liquid, since he is also going to need a pitcher of cream and four packets of sugar. Travel dehydrates me, but he’ll buy me one as well, which I drink black from the small porcelain or Styrofoam vessel, and I can already feel it working through my bowels while we watch farmers and their wives erect their market stalls of lettuce and radishes, the dew already evaporated from the clumps of dirt still clinging to the rots. There are men in the bar drinking those thin glasses of pale beer, a sight that turns my stomach at that hour (or maybe it’s just caffeine and stomach acid) and offends my father’s sensibilities, but we conclude that it is perfectly civilized—nay, every working man’s right—to enjoy a beer or two with his buddies after work, even when it’s the third shift. It’s odd how our vices are acceptable as long as they are on schedule.

            It is not possible for me to become a Real Person before ten a.m., so I’m thankful that this is one of the things my dad can order for himself: Deux cafés, s’il vous plaît, and if the person behind the counter doesn’t speak French, the coffee won’t be strong enough and we’ll move on.

 

            The machine in the kitchen emits five chirps, and I pour a mug that is too hot to drink. It is still too early. I realize that my dad is probably running right now, doing this little cloverleaf pattern through the streets around the house I grew up in, despite the February chill and icy sidewalks. After 2.6 miles, he will stretch while the cats sniff at him inquisitively, probably wondering what that man is doing on the floor again. He will fill the kettle and brew his cereal bowl of sugary, intensely coffee-flavored half-and-half. My mother makes her own pot of coffee in the regular machine, because she isn’t picky, either, but needs something before she can put her eyeballs in that morning.

            Out on the porch, watching steam rise from my mug, I concentrate on these little wisps of feeling like we’re all together on vacation right now, enjoying a little quiet time before another day of glorious adventures in Belgium or Germany or France. I’m sure it’s later than I think it is, that I should shower and do something about my hair and stop pretending I’m not in Wisconsin in February. . .

In other news: http://puttingweirdthingsincoffee.com